


Heartache Number One

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Infidelity, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, Love Triangles, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Season/Series 03, everyone is morally bankrupt, poor decisions, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The London Sherlock returns to after his ‘resurrection’ is vastly different than what he’d expected. But he isn’t going to let that stop him from pursuing his old life, including John Watson.</p><p>John’s engaged to a lovely nurse and has everything he thought he ever wanted. Then why can’t he stay out of his best friend’s bed?</p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic. </p><p>HEED THE TAGS because everyone is morally bankrupt in this fic.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number," a popular country song written by Harlan Howard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartache Number One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you DulcimerGecko and MissDavis for your beta skills with this fic. All the kudos to you!

_Heartache number one was when you left me_  
_I never knew that I could hurt this way_  


~ _Heartaches by the Number_ , written by Harlan Howard

 

~*~

 

John’s mouth was open; he gazed at Sherlock with something akin to worship. “Amazing. Truly fantastic. That was. Simply amazing.” 

Sherlock glanced sideways at John without turning his head. Yes, his deductions at the crime scene earlier that evening had been brilliant, but really, John was going overboard this time. “Hmmm?” He made a noncommittal sound in his throat, more to keep John talking than a real reply.

John leaned forward in his chair, tumbler of golden whiskey held loosely between his knees. “What gave it away? What detail did you see that the entirety of Scotland Yard would otherwise have missed? After all these years, I still don’t understand how you can see what everyone else overlooks.”

The tender dark pink inside of John’s lower lip glistened in the dim lamplight. Sherlock stared at it, transfixed. John licked his lips then closed them in a small smile. To cover his disquiet, Sherlock took a long pull of his own drink. “I don’t understand how other people can’t see things. I can’t tell you how I do it because it’s just ordinary to me.”

John beamed at him. Something in those dark blue eyes, soft and fond, pulled Sherlock forward and gave him courage he’d never found before. He leaned all the way into John’s personal space, tilted his head, and placed his lips gently on John’s. 

Breathing stopped for a moment. Neither was sure who gasped first. Was it John, in surprise? Or Sherlock, in awe at the feeling of John’s lips under his. The pause seemed to stretch on and on, when in reality it passed in a second. 

John surged forward, slotting his lips more firmly to Sherlock’s, grasping the nape of Sherlock’s neck with one hand while the other went to Sherlock’s waist. Their knees knocked then tangled, an annoying barrier to touch. At last John fitted his knees between Sherlock’s and slid to the floor, bringing Sherlock down with him. 

Sherlock took over the kiss, crowding John’s space, crouching over him, their height difference even more evidenced when kneeling than it was when they were standing. He slid both hands into John’s hair, cupping his head and angling it so their lips met perfectly. John groaned and opened his mouth, slightly; Sherlock dove in, tongue exploring the soft insides of both of John’s lips, his small, even teeth, the firm tissue behind his top teeth. John groaned again. His tongue met Sherlock’s, caressing, forcing Sherlock’s back as John explored the terrain inside Sherlock’s lips. 

They separated, John’s head still cradled in Sherlock’s big hands. Sherlock searched John’s eyes for an answer to the question he’d stifled since the day they met: did John want him the way he wanted John? And there, in the indigo depths, Sherlock saw a desire matching his own. He ducked again, kissing John roughly, one hand rubbing down John’s spine to cup his buttock and draw their bodies closer together. John shifted his weight then settled against Sherlock, lean and compact and hard in all the right places. 

Sherlock’s other hand trailed back to his chair to find purchase in the seat cushion. He leaned back, still clasping John tightly to him, and hauled them both to their feet. John leaned against him with one knee between Sherlock’s, his hip thrust forward firmly against Sherlock’s thigh. There was no mistaking John’s reaction to their snogging - Sherlock couldn’t have ignored it if he’d tried. While he’d never actually seen John naked during the years of their cohabitation, he’d strongly suspected that John was well endowed below the belt. The evidence of John’s endowment put shame to Sherlock’s conjecture. John was, indeed, huge.

Sherlock’s hands tore at John’s belt. With it finally out of the way, he made short work of John’s button fly jeans, roughly shoving them down John’s thighs until they dropped to his ankles. One hand still clasping John’s buttock and the other groped for the waistband of John’s boxer briefs. Impatient, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and placed it over his erection on the outside of his pants, pulling it firmly to him, palm side cupping the hot bulge. Sherlock groaned, pressing his palm into John’s heat, sliding the heel of his hand up and down the smooth cotton between their flesh.

Sherlock grasped John’s wrist. He tugged, pulling John through the kitchen and down the hall toward his bedroom. John tripped eagerly behind him. His stocking feet slipped slightly on the lino and hardwood but the insistent pressure of Sherlock’s hand around his wrist propelled him through the bedroom door.

Sherlock spun toward John, gathering him to his chest, ducking to plant a rough kiss on John’s jaw. He backed them toward the bed and when the back of John’s legs connected with it, Sherlock gently pressed him to sit. John did, spreading his knees, raising his face for kiss after kiss. Fingers working his own belt and flies open, Sherlock kept up his assault on John’s lips, sucking first the upper one between his and then the lower, nipping gently. When his trousers finally fell to the floor around his ankles, Sherlock dropped to his knees. 

He looked up at John intently. “You want this?” Sherlock rasped.

John nodded.

“Then say it.”

“I want this.”

“No, say it! What you said that first day, when I asked if you wanted to come on the serial suicide case. Say it.”

John looked down at Sherlock’s flushed face. A sly smile curved his lips. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “Oh, god, yes.”

Sherlock’s features lit up. He held John’s gaze for another moment, then turned his attention to John’s shirt, slipping the buttons through the buttonholes with one hand and dragging it roughly down John’s arms. He shoved John’s white v-neck vest up under his arms and rose up on his knees to nibble at the patch of golden hair covering John’s chest. “Oh, god, yes.” John slipped both hands into Sherlock’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp, pulling him up for more kisses. 

Sherlock worked his thumbs into the waistband of John’s pants and lifted the elastic waistband over John’s erection. John shifted so Sherlock could pull them down his thighs, over his bent knees and off his feet. John gasped when Sherlock touched him without the impediment of cotton. Sherlock’s fingers played up and down, exploring veins and contours as lightly as a blind person explores a new acquaintance's face. 

“Oh, god, yes.” John said it over and over. Each new caress, each new sensation brought sighs and a new inflection of “Oh, god, yes.” And when Sherlock bent and swallowed him down in one fluid motion, John choked the words in discrete sentences. “Oh. God. Yes.”

 

Afterward, Sherlock’s fingers toyed lazily with John’s chest hair, occasionally wandering to circle his nipples. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “You’re going to call it off.”

John looked down at Sherlock resting his cheek against his shoulder. A puzzled expression drew down the corners of John’s mouth. “What are you on about?”

“The wedding.”

“Call off my wedding?” John looked puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you love me.”

John sat up, causing Sherlock’s head to slip from his chest. “I’m not going to call it off.”

“But you love me!”

John looked down sadly at Sherlock’s face, still flushed from sex, hair wild and damp with sweat. “I do. But that doesn’t change my plans with Mary.”

Sherlock sat up and faced John squarely. “Why not? What do you need with her now? You’ve got me. This. Us.” He gestured between them.

Shoulders slumped, John looked up at the ceiling. Anything to avoid Sherlock’s hurt expression. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is!” Sherlock was beginning to get angry. “Go home, tell her the wedding’s off, come back. Simple.”

John’s mouth twisted. The turned his face toward Sherlock but didn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t do that to Mary.”

“But you can do it to me! You can get up and go back to her. And leave me here with the smell of your sex on my sheets.” Sherlock didn’t try to hide the hurt and anger behind his words.

“Sherlock, Mary was... She helped me. She was there when you didn’t trust me enough to include me in your plans. Or think enough of me to tell me that you weren’t dead!”

“I told you! I told you, it was a trick, just a magic trick! I told you but you didn’t understand!”

John turned his back on Sherlock. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Sherlock rose to an elbow; the white sheet that had covered them slipped to his hip.

“Well good on you, Sherlock. You gave me a riddle then jumped off a building right in front of me. And it’s somehow my fault that I didn’t puzzle it out.”

Sherlock swallowed and looked away.

John retrieved his clothing from the floor. He dressed with jerky, angry motions. “So no, Sherlock, I won’t be calling off the wedding. This never happened. Got it?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to John’s at the words. Hurt replaced anger in them. “No. I won’t forget this, John. You can try, but you won’t either.” Sherlock sat up all the way. The sheet pooled around his hips. “You’ll be back. You love me.”

John finished tucking his shirt into his jeans. “No,” he said, giving Sherlock a frown. “I won’t, Sherlock. Forget this happened.”

John was giving him an unspoken ultimatum: 'forget this or lose my friendship.' Sherlock watched John buckle his belt in short, jerky motions, then sit on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes. John bent to tie the shoes; even the curve of his back radiated anger. 

Sherlock set his mouth in a resolute line as John sat upright. “Alright, John. It never happened.”

John turned to face Sherlock. His expression was fixed, hard. “Okay then.”

“Friends?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John stood and nodded down at Sherlock. “Of course.” He strode toward the door and paused with his hand on the knob. He kept his eyes on the door. “Sherlock, Mary’s expecting another day of wedding planning here, tomorrow.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock echoed.

John glanced at him in the dim lamplight. Each saw the other’s pain, but neither acknowledged it. 

“I’ll see you then.”

Sherlock settled back into the pillows. He drew the sheet up to his shoulders while John silently watched. “Goodnight, John. Can you turn out the lights on your way out?” His casual tone held no trace of the tumult he held inside.


End file.
